Church bells have grown beards
of dust. The markets are denuded.
Pigeons have taken over the parks.
We stopped calling the days by name.
Today is abiku—yesterday replayed—
tomorrow will wear this same face.
This quiet is of a wound festering,
a dream decaying. This silence is
of a love withering, craving the bliss
of tending—a touch of sunlight or rain
reaching for light
my first time at the
i walked down
an ascending escalator
in my head. i know
one man who would go
through with such impulse
—a tipsy Max once sang
a love song to
a stranger in the elevator.
when i’m bored, i sit
in the mall & watch
people ride the escalator—smile
at memories of little brother
sneaking up on automatic doors
at the Sheraton. in this darkness,
we constantly reach out for
a ray—spark of laughter,
blue skies in pockets
they say there is light
at the end of the tunnel—
but we have on our hands
a growing tunnel or a
light receding like my hairline.
hope is a woman,
bald—this wig on her
head will not grow a strand.
Jide Badmus is inspired by beauty and destruction; he believes that things in ruins were once beautiful. He explores sensuality and healing. Jide’s works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Shore, Disquiet Arts, African Writer, Dream Noir Arts, elsewhere. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria. His social media: twitter @bardmus, IG @instajhide
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